Tangela's Tears: The Stink of Defeat
by DarkV
Summary: It was a cold, rainy day in March when the outsider had to defend his ways.


**Tangela's Tears: The Stink of Defeat**

It was a rainy day in March when he sauntered through the doors of Tangela's Tears Bar. He carried with him the weight of the world, the manner of a rebel, and the odor of a thousand rotting Rattatas. The patrons of the bar were shaken from their brooding self pity as his presence washed over them. This was something new.   
  
He plopped down on a stool roughly at the center of the bar. The men on either side quickly slid down towards either extremity of the room. The man looked from side to side, in search of service. It stepped rather uneasily towards him, its head tipped a bit away, and looked him over.   
  
"What'll it be?"   
  
"Celibate Suzie."   
  
"...How's that?"   
  
"Hold the garter."   
  
"Wait, wait. The _what_? Did you just make that up?"   
  
"Hm? Oh...yes, I did, actually." He reached into his pocket and produced a small square of folded paper. "That's why I keep copies of the recipe with me." He pushed it towards the bartender, who unfolded it and raised an eyebrow at the block of unintelligible scribbling.   
  
"Uh huh. Look buddy, I appreciate the patronage, but this isn't some kind of--" He was interrupted by the sound of a wad of legal tender being slapped down on the bar. The bartender promptly raised his remaining eyebrow at the stack of cash that was greater than what the collective daily patrons generated in a week. "Give me ten minutes," he muttered as he pocketed the money and shuffled quickly away.   
  
A man piped up from his new position near the end of the bar. "And what are you supposed to be?"   
  
The newcomer cleared his throat and coughed. "Call me Ishmael."   
  
"What?"   
  
"S'cuse me." He coughed again. "I said Carmichael."   
  
"Carmichael, eh? Is that your first or last name?"   
  
"Yes."   
  
"Ok. And what are you supposed to be?"   
  
"Me? I'm a drifter. My home is where I turn my bones in for the night. My next destination is never certain. My job is being a Jack of all trades."   
  
"Yeah?"   
  
"Yeah. Manual labor, secretarial work, janitorial work, some technical work, you name it."   
  
"How about bathing? Can you do that?"   
  
"I'm also a moderately successful trainer."   
  
This elicited a few grunts of disgust from various points in the room.   
  
"Feh. Most of the guys here tried their hand at pokemon once. Training or breeding or what have you. Didn't get 'em anywhere though. The industry's saturated, training especially. It's full of little kids from all over the place. Those little pricks from Johto are the worst, with their fancyass cell phones, and all their preaching about bonding with their pokemon and such."   
  
"Heh. They also carry the most cash."   
  
"Ever thought of buying some soap with all that money?"   
  
"Everything I need I get from the pokemon shops."   
  
"So, what, you just wander around in the woods for weeks at a time without hygiene?"   
  
"Eh, pretty much."   
  
The man shook his head and turned his attention back to his drink. This left room for a man from the other side of the bar to join in, to inquire about the outside world.   
  
"Do you sleep under the stars, then?"   
  
"What, are you simple? No one in his right mind would let his guard down out in that jungle."   
  
"Really? I didn't think any wild pokemon would be much of a threat to a trainer like you."   
  
"Pokemon? Hell, I'm talking about the other trainers. To be perfectly honest, most of them couldn't battle to save their lives. Those are the richest ones, and I can tell you right now it's not because of the few battles they win. I've never seen such a group of thieves. I'm sure they'll end up being recruited by Team Rocket."   
  
"That sounds about right. Where do you sleep then?"   
  
"I always head for the local pokemon center. Usually they only have a few rooms, and since those will always be taken, they'll have people in sleeping bags in the front lobby. If I flash a few bills at them they find a way to accommodate me, as in I get the nice cushy room instead of some freeloading second-rate trainer. Then I just get back to my travels in the morning."   
  
"Now hold on a minute. I've been in a few centers myself, and I know most of them have showers."   
  
"I've never used a public shower, and I never will."   
  
"I thought they kept them very clean."   
  
"Sure, including the convenient little hole in the wall, so you can check to make sure nobody's watching you from the other room."   
  
"Well eh...er...hm."   
  
"Order up!" The pitcher of curious brew came sliding down the bar, where it was caught by Carmichael. It was followed by a glass.   
  
"Won't be needing that," he said as he lifted the pitcher up to his lips. This earned a few curious stares from the other patrons of the bar, but otherwise conversation died out, leaving the bar in a thick silence. Occasionally there was the sound of a car driving down the street, or the low muttering of a couple sauntering past the thin windows of the building.   
  
A sudden clattering outside broke the silence. "Damn it!" a voice cursed loudly just outside the door. Then the sound of metal being dragged across concrete, then more clattering.   
  
"So..." the bartender began.   
  
"...Yep," Carmichael responded. Another few cars went by.   
  
The door flew open. There was only a slight breeze before a man crawled in, dragging what appeared clearly to be a bicycle behind him, and he turned to fiddle around with one of the wheels. When he had succeeded in untangling his shoelaces from the contraption, he disgustedly kicked it away.   
  
"Friggin' thing," he muttered as he rose to his feet, squeezing filthy puddle water from his clothes. "Who put that out there?"   
  
None of the patrons, of course, could afford a bike. As such things were common equipment among the mobs of pokemon trainers, the markup was incredible; high enough to make even the successful of the lucrative business of pokemon battling choke. Carmichael felt a dozen gazes turn toward him. He turned toward them.   
  
"That would be mine."   
  
"And who are you?"   
  
"Car--"   
  
"Shut up."   
  
"Alright."   
  
"Did you leave that out there just for people to trip on?"   
  
"N--"   
  
"Shut up."   
  
"Alright."   
  
"Let's fight."   
  
"Alright." Carmichael flipped open his coat, forcing a light, rancid breeze out in either direction. At least a dozen familiar looking balls dangled from his belt and shirt.   
  
"What is _that_?"   
  
"Draw!" His fingers danced over the assortment of pokeballs, each growing to four times its size in turn. He pulled his coat closed, then whipped it outward again with a flourish. His chest erupted with a blinding white light and loud, tinny clicking noises. The light blanketed the floor all around Carmichael, then gradually retracted into a dozen bloblike forms. As they regained their color, it became clear that the bar was now half filled with Muk.   
  
Their odor expanded outward like a shockwave, and it might as well have been for the damage it caused. Patrons knocked over their glasses, chairs, and tables as they clutched at their noses, trying to keep out the smell. The bartender, distracted from his bar-scrubbing duties, held his cloth up to his face. The room came alive with sounds of stumbling and gagging and retching. The surly, bike-tripped man, too, was doubled over.   
  
"_Yech_!" the bartender spat in between fits of coughing. "You two take it _out_side!"   
  
Carmichael, cradling his pitcher of liquor in one arm, sauntered out the open door of the bar. He gulped down some more of the beverage as he stood, waiting for his pokemon to regroup, and for his opponent to arrive. The sentient puddles of goo filed out after him. The other man did not. He was instead met with the flapping of towels and cloth as the people inside frantically aired out the room. He sniffed tentatively at the air, but detected nothing out of the ordinary.   
  
"Do I get seconds?" he asked, holding out the pitcher. The door slammed shut.   
  
"Keep it," the bartender's voice called from inside. Certainly it wasn't worth losing all of his customers for the one-time patronage of this smelly man. "Go on. On your bike."   
  
Carmichael sighed. "Ah well. Looks like we aren't welcomed here either. Come on, guys." He picked his bike up from the pavement and climbed on. The Muk oozed up beside him, on his lap, behind him, on the handlebars, and everywhere else there was room. It was time to head west. And so, he pedaled off down the cracked, soaked streets of Cerulean City.   
  
Inside, the bartender scrubbed furiously at the stool where Carmichael had sat, while the remaining odor only slowly dissipated. Once satisfied with the cleanliness of the stool, he rubbed his eyes, which were still sore from the stinging effluvium of the pokemon. He shut them tightly and waited for the tears to wash them clean.   
  
"Jeez. What a prick." 


End file.
